


Adelaide Interrupted

by BstnStrg13



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BstnStrg13/pseuds/BstnStrg13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has a habit of walking in on Adelaide and Harry at awkward moments.  Adelaide isn't certain whether she's grateful or annoyed.  Loosely connected, single chapter stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lock Picks and Knives

**Author's Note:**

> This show was an unexpected pleasure and I hope it's back for a second season. The three leads are great, and I particularly love how Michael Weston plays Houdini -- with a mixture of brashness, boyishness and vulnerability.

“You ‘ere to eat with Mister ‘Oudini again?”

Adelaide Stratton looked up from her seat to see a friendly, curious smile on the waitress’s face.   She was surprised that the woman felt familiar enough to ask the question and even more surprised that her habit of dining with Harry had become apparent to others, but then she supposed they had become something like regulars at the pub.   Ever since they’d gotten back to London from Canada they seemed to have fallen into the routine of meeting every Friday evening to share events from the week over a meal, even when they weren’t working a case together.   The waitress – Adelaide was fairly certain she was the wife of the pub owner – had never mentioned Harry by name before and Adelaide had assumed that she hadn’t recognized him.  Evidently that was not the case.  The woman’s face flushed slightly when she said “Houdini” and it was obvious that she held some admiration for her rather famous customer.   

Adelaide studied the waitress carefully.  She looked to be somewhere between 30 and 35 years old, energetic and pleasant.   Her interest in Adelaide and Harry appeared well-meant, not gossipy, and she seemed to feel some sort of unspoken kinship with lady constable.   She must have noticed the uniform, Adelaide thought, and realized that while they were from different backgrounds, both of them belonged to that select group comprised of females who held jobs – not a complete rarity but still not all that common in 1901.  Perhaps it was that bond that made the woman decide it was acceptable to cross into personal territory and ask about Adelaide’s dinner companion.  At any rate,   Adelaide saw no harm in answering her question.  She found the waitress sincere and good-humored.  And, after all, Harry _was_ going to be coming through the door shortly.

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m expecting Mr. Houdini to join me tonight.”

The woman nodded, still smiling.  “Are you a couple, then?  You two meet ‘ere pretty regular.”

Adelaide felt her cheeks warm slightly, although she wasn’t quite sure why.  The wise thing would be to reply that it was none of the waitress’s business, but the question had been kindly meant.  So, she answered honestly instead, “No, we’re not a couple.  We work together from time to time.  And we’re friends.”   Well, friends apart from that one kiss in Canada that they never spoke of -- that very surprising, very earnest Kiss.

“Oh.”  The waitress actually seemed disappointed on Adelaide’s behalf.  When the constable gave her a querying look, she leaned down and explained, “’E left tickets for me and me ‘usband to see his show last week.  Very kind of ‘im -- we had a wonderful time.  We got all dressed up and made a night of it.”

Adelaide smiled to herself.  That sounded like Harry.  He had a habit of noticing people that others found invisible – like cab drivers and waitresses.  She had no trouble believing he’d thought to give the woman tickets. 

The waitress wasn’t finished, however.  She lowered her voice and got even closer to Adelaide’s ear.    “Have you ever seen his show?”  When Adelaide shook her head, the woman continued, “There’s this trick ‘e does where ‘e escapes from being locked up in a tank of water.  Strips down to his skivvies when ‘e gets in the tank.”  She paused, and her cheeks flushed.  “You wouldn’t guess it by seeing ‘im in his clothes, but ‘e’s got quite the physique.  All muscle.  ‘E certainly hasn’t let himself get soft.” 

Adelaide frowned.  This was an unexpected turn in the conversation.  “Really,” was all she could think of to say.    The sensible constable as well as the proper lady in her said it was time to change the subject.   The flesh and blood woman, on the other hand, was curious what the waitress would utter next.

The woman giggled suddenly.  “I think the ladies in the audience liked that trick most of all.  Not sure their ‘usbands were so happy about it, though.  You know, comparisons and all…”

Adelaide laughed.  She couldn’t help it.

The waitress glanced over at the man pulling pints behind the bar.  He was tall and well-built, although his stomach suggested he might sample an extra pork pie from the kitchen from time to time.  Adelaide guessed that he was also a good ten years older than the vivacious woman standing next to her.  The waitress said fondly, “Me ‘usband’s no slouch, but you see a man like Mister ‘Oudini – strong and good with ‘is hands -- and you can’t ‘elp but wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Adelaide asked, although she had an inkling of where the woman might be headed.  Adelaide had, after all, been married.

The waitress flushed a deeper scarlet and she put her mouth right next to Adelaide’s ear.  “You know, wonder wot ‘e’s like,” she paused, and after a furtive look at her husband added, “between the sheets.”  When Adelaide said nothing, the woman smiled apologetically and added, “You and Mr. ‘Oudindi seem close and ‘e looks at you like you’re very important to ‘im.   I figured maybe you’d had the chance to find out.  I’m sorry for being…” she struggled a moment for a word…“ Impertinent,” she finished.  She looked genuinely embarrassed.

Adelaide shook her head.  “Don’t worry about it – I’m not offended.”

She truthfully wasn’t.  The fact that Harry Houdini liked her company and cared about her -- clearly enough for this woman to remark on it -- was more gratifying than it should have been.  Adelaide reminded herself of all the reasons that she found Harry exasperating.  He earned his living in entertainment, for starters, and made the London society pages fairly regularly -- occasionally with a glamorous woman on his arm.  He could be brash and blunt, taking honesty well past the point of propriety.   And he gleefully ignored almost every convention that was the backbone of polite society.   People might go to see his show, but he was unlikely to be asked to join any of the better gentlemen’s clubs.   He could dress the part, people would say, but he would never really be one of them.   

But in a perverse way, all of that also made him very likeable, at least to Adelaide.   Most men with his resources would have wanted her to dress for dinner and taken her to an elegant, formal restaurant where the crystal tinkled softly and people spoke in hushed tones.  Harry loved the jovial atmosphere of the pub and was fine with her coming to dinner still wearing her constable’s uniform.   While they ate he gave her every bit of his attention, listening to what she said, commenting on it and asking questions – questions that sometimes challenged her to think differently.  And he paid her one of the greatest compliments a man could pay a woman, at least in Adelaide’s mind; he respected her intelligence and he took her work seriously.   As for the women he was photographed with in the society pages -- Adelaide noticed that he was never with the same woman twice.  They were a temporary adornment, there for one evening and then gone.  His friendship with her, this standing dinner date, was constant. 

There were times when Adelaide thought, like the waitress, that Harry looked at her as something more than a friend.  But ever since The Kiss he’d been…well, almost cautious.  The brashness hadn’t disappeared completely, but there were moments when he seemed a little uncertain and he’d dropped the innuendos altogether.   Which was good, she reminded herself, she should be happy about that.

“Good evening, ladies.”

Both Adelaide and the waitress’s heads snapped up to see the subject of their conversation standing there, a smile crinkling his blue eyes.  Adelaide hoped her face didn’t appear as guilty as the other woman’s  -- the waitress looked as though she’d been caught pilfering a wallet.    

Adelaide did her best to recover.

“Good evening, Harry,” she responded with reasonable composure.   The waitress quickly diverted her eyes to the floor, studying it with great interest.  The hectic flush on her cheeks returned.

Harry glanced at the woman curiously and Adelaide expected him to ask about her obvious discomfort.  But instead, all he said was, “Martha, I hope you and your husband enjoyed the show the other evening?” (Of course _he_ would have learned the waitress’s name, Adelaide thought, something she’d never bothered to do.)

Martha nodded, not meeting Harry’s eyes.  “Very much.  Thank you for the tickets.”

“What was your favorite trick?”

Martha looked at Adelaide and turned an even deeper scarlet.  “They were all good, Mr. ‘Oudini,” she mumbled.  “I couldn’t pick one out above t’others.”  When he looked like he might probe further, she quickly added, “I’ll go and fetch your glass of milk now.”   And she fled the table.

Harry watched her go, a puzzled expression on his face.  “Funny,” he said to Adelaide.  “The women usually tell me they prefer the water torture.”  He shrugged, and in his typical cocky fashion added, “They like seeing me with my shirt off.”

Normally Adelaide would have taken him to task for a statement like that, but it seemed wiser this time to leave it alone.

* * *

 

It’s funny how a seemingly insignificant conversation can stay in your memory for weeks. 

Adelaide generally had a gift for _forgetting_ specific discussions, particularly useless, unpleasant ones.  Take Sergeant Gudgett, for example.  He could enthusiastically lecture her for 30 minutes on the reasons why a woman did not belong in Scotland Yard and Adelaide wouldn’t recall a word of it two hours later.  It was a defense mechanism, really.  A faulty memory was a friend to the modern woman, helping her survive the endless advice she was given.

But when a waitress in the local pub shared a few thoughts about Harry Houdini’s more…tangible…assets, well -- Adelaide just couldn’t get those words out of her head.  They were there every time she dined with him, every time they interviewed a suspect.   They were there when she was wedged between Arthur and Harry in the cramped seat of a cab.  And they were there on the evenings she, Arthur and Harry huddled late at Arthur’s house to review progress on their latest case.  Harry would take his jacket off and Adelaide found herself trying to peer through the linen of his shirt to see whether Martha was right about the strength of his arms.   At such times she was grateful that neither Harry nor Arthur could read thoughts.

The frightening part was that she knew it was entirely within her power to find the answer to Martha’s question about Harry’s…skills.  Ever since The Kiss, Harry had ceased his not-so-subtle hints about Adelaide spending the night with him, but she was quite certain that if she were to show up outside his bedroom door she would not be turned away.   Harry clearly did not subscribe to the idea that sex was only for married people, and Adelaide suspected he also did not believe the Victorian notion that normal women did not have desires.   Adelaide was not too crazy about that notion either, come to think of it.  While there certainly had been issues in her marriage to Benjamin – including the fact that it was built upon a lie -- satisfactory physical congress had never been one of them.   And now, thanks to a ten minute conversation with Waitress Martha, she couldn’t help but wonder whether said congress with Harry might be equally or even more satisfying. 

Of course she had no intention of truly investigating the matter.   She might be a modern, even unconventional woman, but hopping into bed simply because she found a man attractive was pushing the boundaries.  And while she had come to accept and appreciate many of Harry’s more _un-English_ qualities, his out-sized ego was not one of them and she did not want to feed it further.  Any kind of admiration or interest in his person would certainly do that.   And finally, working together might become terribly awkward if they were ever to…well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

So Adelaide did her best to focus on their cases and drive Martha’s words out of her head.  Fate, however, was not always cooperative.

* * *

 

Adelaide Stratton wanted to learn how to pick a lock. 

As a constable she was -- strictly speaking -- supposed to enter locked premises only when a warrant had been granted by the local magistrate or a suspect was already in custody.   And…generally…she agreed with that principle.  She was an officer of the law, after all, and obligated to uphold it.   Picking a lock was something that Harry Houdini with his disregard for the rules would do, not Adelaide Stratton.

Still, there were those rare occasions during a case where there were gray areas.  A life might be at stake, for example, or the investigation might not be an _official_ one.   Such situations benefited from quick, decisive action, including a search for physical evidence.  Harry’s ability to get past any door had come in handy in the past and it was beginning to irritate her to have to rely on him for all the lock-picking.  She wanted the freedom to act, even when he wasn’t there.  Plus, it was a skill that would give her a one-up on the insufferable Sergeant Gudgett.  The fact that he thought he was a better police officer merely because of the state of his lower anatomy was annoying.

One of those rare occasions presented itself shortly after Adelaide’s conversation with Martha.  The case was of the unofficial sort and not supernatural in the least.   The wife of a friend of Arthur’s had noticed her jewelry disappearing, a piece here or there over time.  At first she and her husband suspected the maid, but they eventually realized that the losses coincided with a specific dinner guest – a young, single man who was the son of friends.  Their suspicions were further supported by learning that the fellow had a gambling habit, losing at cards fairly regularly at his gentleman’s club.   For the sake of their relationship with their friends, they did not want to report the case to the police.  They did, however, want to confront the young man with proof and recover any jewelry he may still have in his possession. 

Which led to the need for lock-picking.

The fellow had a flat a short distance from his club.   The plan was for Arthur, a member of the same club, to engage the man in conversation while Adelaide and Harry took a quick look at his rooms.  A pearl broach had disappeared from the woman’s jewelry box only the night before so it was possible that the evidence might still be in his flat.   If they found it, they would challenge him with the broach.  Thus, Harry and Adelaide stood in front of his door, with Harry reaching into his pocket to pull out his set of picks.

“Could I try?” The words were out of Adelaide’s mouth before she knew it.

Harry raised one eyebrow.  “Constable Stratton, sworn to uphold the law, are you telling me that you wish to learn the art of breaking and entering?”

There were a lot of things Adelaide could have responded with, but time was of the essence so instead she simply said, “Yes.”  Harry could tease her about the legalities later.

He stared at her for moment, his smile fading.  “I suppose,” he said more soberly, “that it’s a good skill for you to have.  You have a habit of finding danger and lock-picking could get you out of trouble one of these days.”  He pulled one of the picks out of his case and handed it to her.  “Here, give it a try.”

Adelaide grasped the pick, then inserted it into the lock and wiggled it around.  She did it gently, and then more vigorously. 

And absolutely nothing happened.  She looked at Harry questioningly.

He smiled.  “Get down lower.  When you’re first learning, it helps to be at eye-level with the lock.  You can feel the tumblers better.”

Adelaide complied, lowering herself into a crouch in front of the door and staring straight into the lock.

“Now,” Harry continued, “insert the pick all the way and pull it back slowly.  At some point you should feel it catch.  When you do, turn your wrist very quickly.  It may take a little force.”

Adelaide did as instructed.  It took her several tries and she needed to place the pick in various positions within the lock, but eventually she felt it catch.   She smiled and quickly turned her wrist.

Nothing.

“The turn needs to be quicker and harder,” Harry said.  “Try again.”

She did.  Still nothing.

Harry crouched down behind her and leaned forward, covering her hand with his.  “Here,” he said, guiding her hand, pushing the pick into the lock and then pulling it back slowly.  “You feel it catch?”

Adelaide nodded and swallowed.  “Yes,” she said shortly.   She could also feel Harry’s head close to hers, his chin almost resting on her shoulder and his other hand placed lightly on her back.   He smelled surprisingly good – not heavily cologned, just clean, with the subtle scent of shaving soap. 

“Good. Now…” Harry flicked his wrist, his hand still holding hers, and the lock opened with a distinctive _click_.  “You see how fast it has to be?  If you’re tentative, you’ll lose the connection.”

“Yes, I see.”  Adelaide expected Harry to stand up and push the door open so they could look for the broach.  They didn’t know how long Arthur could keep the fellow occupied, after all, and they were in a public hallway.  But apparently he’d decided to make it a real lesson.  He flicked his wrist again and the locked snapped once more into place.

“Now you try.”  He removed his hand from hers, but remained crouched behind her.  He gave her a small pat on the shoulder for encouragement.  

Feeling like she was in an examination in school, Adelaide once again inserted the pick and then gently withdrew it until she felt it grab.  She turned her wrist hard.  There was the sound of the tumblers moving, but the lock didn’t open.

“Better,” Harry said into her ear, his breath warm on her neck.  “It takes a little bit of strength.”  He put his hand over hers once more then slid it back until his fingers gently encircled her wrist.  “You should squeeze a rubber ball fifty times every night, it will build up your forearm strength.” 

Adelaide recalled Martha’s words about Harry’s muscles, while at the same time becoming conscious of his chest pressed against her back.  She suddenly felt a little breathless, the result of crouching down for so long, no doubt.  “Is that what you do?” she asked.

“Among other things,” Harry replied, a smile in his voice.  “My living relies on maintaining a good level of fitness so I have a series of exercises I do most days.”  He moved his hand back over hers.  “Now, do you want to try again?”

Adelaide was about to say “yes” when there was the sound of a throat clearing behind them.  She tried to jump to her feet, but Harry restrained her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Hello Arthur,” he said calmly, not even looking up.  “We’re just going over the finer points of lock-picking.  I trust the young man is not on his way here?”

“He’s not,” Arthur replied.  “He left the club, but said he has some other business to attend to.  I was coming up to tell you that you didn’t have to rush.  Apparently you already knew that.”  His voice was dry and Adelaide wasn’t sure whether she heard amusement or disappointment in his tone.  She felt her cheeks redden.

If Harry was embarrassed, he didn’t show it.  He remained crouched behind her but removed his hand from hers.  “So, Adelaide,” he said softly, “One more time?”

She nodded and bit her lip.  Anxious to get out of what she was sure looked like compromising position to Arthur, she pulled the pick back quickly and gave it a hard yank.

The lock opened.  She stared at it in disbelief for several seconds.

“Nice work, Adelaide,” Harry said.  For a second she thought he might kiss her on the cheek, but instead he patted her shoulder gently and got to his feet.   “It’s like anything else, you’ll get better with practice.  We’ll get you your own set of picks and don’t forget what I said about the rubber ball.”

“I won’t,” she mumbled, standing up.  Her back felt a little chilled without Harry’s warmth close behind her.

They found the broach and closed the case.

 

* * *

 

The opportunity to get a closer look at Harry’s “physique,” as Martha would say, was thrust upon Adelaide few weeks later when they were south of London in Cornwall, investigating a murder reported to be the work of something that was half human-half sea creature.   Scotland Yard was now firmly in the habit of throwing anything with a supernatural bent their way and, after a long day slogging up and down the beach, Adelaide, Arthur and Harry were having a late dinner in the tavern of their inn mulling over logical explanations for the killing.  They were being treated with the coolness that locals often reserved for Londoners, with Harry as an American, getting the worst of it.  He ignored a number of snide comments but jumped to his feet when an oversized fisherman spilled a pint down his back.

The fight that ensued was dramatic, but quick.  Despite having a good 50 pounds on Harry and wielding a large knife, the fisherman soon found himself semiconscious on the floor with the American looking none the worse for wear.  As he had in the past when his temper had gotten the better of him, Harry apologized to Adelaide and Arthur and then excused himself, saying he was going to turn in early.  They watched him leave.  He seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

“Why do you suppose he can never just turn his back when people push him?” Arthur asked Adelaide.  “He’s got to know he’s more successful than some oaf like that will ever be.”

Adelaide thought about the childhood stories Harry had shared with her months ago, about how being an immigrant had meant being regarded with suspicion and treated as if you were less worthy than the people born in your adopted country.  “I think Harry always feels he has something to prove,” she said softly, “especially to anyone who doubts his mettle.”

Arthur shook his head.  “Well, I hope he never gets insulted by someone he can’t beat.  He’s certainly tough, but he’s not invincible.”

Adelaide smiled wryly.  “No, he’s not, although I’m not sure he’d agree with that.”  She yawned.  “I think I am going to go to bed as well.  It’s been a long day.”

“Goodnight, Adelaide.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

Adelaide climbed the stairs slowly and headed down the hallway toward her room, looking forward to climbing into bed and closing her eyes.  The light still shone from under Harry’s door, and as she passed she noticed a small, dark stain on the floor.  She stopped to peer at it.

It was blood.

Adelaide frowned.  Harry had given no indication of sustaining any kind of injury after the skirmish and she had not seen a wound, but the stain suggested that the fisherman’s knife had made contact at least once.  It certainly _was_ like Harry, she thought, not to say anything, to refuse to acknowledge a vulnerability, even to her or Arthur.  Still, she had to believe that if it truly were serious he would have approached Arthur – reluctantly – for assistance.   Harry was proud but not an imbecile.   He knew his livelihood depended on his health and Arthur was, after all, a doctor.

She glanced once more at the blood spot.   On the other hand, Harry _was_ incredibly pig-headed.  And hanging upside down in a tank of cold water four times a week had probably given him a high threshold for discomfort.  After all, she’d seen him take blows in the past and ignore them entirely.  There was some chance that the knife wound was serious and he didn’t even realize it.

Adelaide stood indecisively outside Harry’s door for a good minute, weighing the risk of feeding his ego by requesting entry to his bedroom against the worry that the cut was grave.   Eventually she came to the conclusion that she would not get any sleep unless she put the question of his injury to rest.  If Harry looked fine when he opened the door, then she would bid him goodnight and go to her room.  She knocked tentatively.

There was no answer.   She had not contemplated that as an outcome.

She knocked a little more loudly. 

Still no answer.

Adelaide began to be concerned.  She put her ear to the door but heard no movement from inside.  She wondered if the wound was severe and if Harry had, in fact, passed out from blood loss.  Maybe the knife had struck some vital organ or an artery.  She imagined him lying in a spreading red pool, his face pale and his breathing shallow.   Thoughts of his egotistical grin forgotten, she turned the knob sharply and pushed, hoping the door wasn’t locked. 

It wasn’t.  She burst into the room just in time to see Harry turn quickly away from her.  He was still in his trousers, but with his shirt off, his suspenders dangling from the waist and a towel clamped to his bare abdomen.   The towel was largely white, but Adelaide could see a red blotch spreading slowly under his hand.  The fisherman’s knife had indeed done some damage, although she couldn’t immediately determine how much.  Harry’s color looked good, though, and he seemed a long way from passing out.  He stared at her over his shoulder and she stared back, both of them surprised by her entrance.

Harry recovered first.

“Adelaide,” he said cheerfully, “I’m glad to see you’ve finally come to your senses and paid me a visit, but I have to say that your timing is not very good.  I’m a little…indisposed.”

Adelaide sighed, mostly in relief although she hoped Harry didn’t realize that.  His response certainly sounded like the Harry she knew, a Harry who was definitely _not_ on the verge of dying.   Still, she wouldn’t put it past him to bluff his way through a more serious injury.  There was only one way to find out the extent of the damage.

“Let me see it, Harry.”

Harry lifted his eyebrows.  “See what, Adelaide?  You’ll have to be a little more specific.”  He glanced down at his bare torso.  “I mean, do the trousers have to come off, too?”

She rolled her eyes.  “The wound, Harry.   Let me see your wound.”

He sobered a little.  “It’s fine, Adelaide,” he said dismissively, “Just a scratch.”

“That’s a lot of blood for a scratch.  It may need stitches.  So let me see it.”

He exhaled with exaggerated forbearance.  “Fine,” he said, turning to face her.  “Take a look.”

She stepped closer and gently tugged the towel out of his hand.  A red line, 5 or 6 inches long, immediately sprang to life on his lower stomach as the blood rushed to the surface of the cut.  She leaned down to dab gingerly at it with the towel.   The line disappeared, but then reappeared immediately when she stopped dabbing.

“You should ask Arthur to examine this.”   

Harry shook his head.  “And listen to his lecture about being the bigger man and turning the other cheek?  I don’t think so.”  He smiled and touched Adelaide’s hand briefly.  “Believe me, in my line of work I get injured all the time.  This one looks much worse than it is.  It’s not deep.”

“Hmmm.”  Adelaide was not convinced.  Resting her other hand on Harry’s bare hip she bent down til she was eye level with the wound and pushed more firmly with the towel, staring intently to see if she could gauge its depth.  It was true that she couldn’t see any soft tissue underneath and it seemed, as Harry said, to be a minor cut.  She probed a little further and couldn’t help noticing that it was also true, as Martha had mentioned weeks earlier, that Harry hadn’t let himself get soft – not in the least.  His stomach was hard, and she could clearly see the distinctive pattern made by his abdominal muscles.  She pushed on the wound again.  Definitely hard.  It dawned on her, to her great embarrassment, that other parts of Harry might be getting hard as well.

“Adelaide…”  Harry’s voice sounded a little strangled.   He placed his index finger under her chin and gently urged her upright until their faces were inches apart.   “As you can see, it’s fine.”  His breathing seemed shallow.  “It will stop bleeding soon, I’m sure.”  He dropped his hand to take the towel back from her, but she held onto it.  For several long seconds they stared into each other’s eyes, joined by a bloody (literally) towel.  Adelaide leaned closer toward Harry and saw him coming forward to meet her.

The door opened.  “Harry, I saw the blood on the floor and wanted to see if…”  Arthur stopped abruptly when he saw the two of them.  He cocked an eyebrow at Houdini’s bare torso and seemed at a loss for words.

Adelaide stepped back, breaking eye contact with Harry, while Houdini once again administered to his stomach wound.  She was fairly certain that Arthur had just saved them both from a repeat of The Kiss – a very good thing for her.   Harry, of course, would be disappointed.

She tugged the towel sharply out of the man’s hand and tossed it to Arthur.  “It seems our Mr. Houdini isn’t as invincible as he thinks he is.  I don’t think the cut needs stitches, but you should take a look – you’re the doctor.” She straightened up and put on her best, severe constable’s face.  “I’ll say goodnight now, gentlemen.”  And without waiting for their responses, she left Harry’s room, shutting the door behind her. 

Once in the hallway, she wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or vexed.  She certainly was going to have a good story for Martha the next time she had dinner at the pub.


	2. After the Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally intended this posting to be a one-shot, but this second scenario popped into my head and I decided to keep going for a couple of reasons. First, both SpoonyLupin and Cumberbatch Critter were kind enough to give encouraging comments; and second, because FOX isn't picking the series up for a second season in the US so I want to keep it in my imagination. I'm so disappointed and still hope the producers can convince another network to pick it up.

Constable Adelaide Stratton read the slip of paper that had been delivered to her desk in Scotland Yard and grimaced.   Why was it telegrams never seemed to bring her good news?  It wasn’t all that long ago that a telegram from Nigel Pennington had started a sequence of events that culminated in discovering that her beloved, dead husband really wasn’t so dead after all.   At least he wasn’t until he attempted to assassinate the president of the United States and wounded her friend and colleague, Arthur Conan Doyle, in the process.  Then, she’d felt obliged to shoot him – with remarkable accuracy, given the chaos at that moment and the undersized pistol that she carried. 

Benjamin’s second death certainly seemed irreversible.  She’d knelt next to him and listened to his last words of love as he lay dying, horribly conscious that she’d been the one to deliver the fatal bullet.  She was vaguely aware of Arthur bleeding profusely a few feet away and Harry Houdini calling frantically for help, but mostly she’d just watched the life leave Benjamin’s eyes.  She had no doubt it was a moment that would haunt her for the rest of her life. 

And it had all started with a telegram.  If it hadn’t been for that bloody thing from Pennington she might still believe that Benjamin had died two years ago in an honorable cause.  But instead, not only had she been forced to experience her husband’s death a second time, but she’d also lost the memory of him as a hero.

Unlike Nigel Pennington’s message, this latest telegram held no mystery whatsoever.  It was direct and cheerful, and its words sent chills up her spine.  She wondered briefly whether there were any berths available on the next ship to Canada or if she could prove useful working a murder case in…well, Aberdeen, perhaps.   She’d heard that northern Scotland was lovely this time of year. 

She read the telegram once more.  The words were still the same.

Cousin Eugenie was coming to London for a visit.

Proper Cousin Eugenie, and her even more proper, pedantic and conceited husband, Rupert. 

Coming to London for an entire week. 

Hoping to spend time with Adelaide.

She sighed.  The murder didn’t have to be in Aberdeen, she thought.   Inverness would work just as well.  Or maybe a sighting of the mysterious sea creature reported to live in Loch Ness required investigation.   Arthur would like that.

“Everthing all right?”  Harry’s voice caused her to lift her eyes from the telegram and peer across the desk at her two colleagues.  Both Harry and Arthur wore similar expressions of concern.

“Fine,” she replied shortly.

The two men looked at each other with blatant skepticism before turning back to her.  “Then you won’t mind showing us the telegram,” Harry said.

She shook her head.  “It’s not important.”

“The last time you said that about a telegram, you received a death threat a couple of weeks later.  So let’s see it, Addie.”

“Really, Harry, it’s not important.”

Houdini raised one eyebrow and stared at her.

“Harry, I promise you there is nothing in this telegram that could remotely lead to a death threat.”  At least not a death threat against _me_ , she thought.

“You swear on it?”

She rolled her eyes, “Harry, I swear to it on a stack of bibles.”

He studied her face intently for a few seconds and then sat back with an exaggerated sigh.  “Fine, Adelaide.  If you insist everything is okay, we’ll believe you.”  He smiled until something behind her caught his attention and he shifted his gaze to look over her shoulder.  Then he grimaced.  “Oh hell, here comes the amazing Sergeant Gudgett, looking surly as usual,” he said in disgust.  “I wonder what’s put a bee in his bonnet today?”

Adelaide turned to follow his glance and quick as a flash Harry snatched the telegram from her hand.  Sergeant Gudgett, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

“Harry!”  Arthur admonished him.

“Oh come on,” Harry replied with a grin, “you’re as curious as I am.  Don’t you want to read it?”

“Not if Adelaide doesn’t want us to,” Arthur said, although he made no effort to recover the telegram and return it to her. 

Harry read it silently, then looked up at her.  “Who are Rupert and Eu…gen...ie?” he asked, drawing out the syllables in Eugenie’s name.  Arthur quietly took the telegram out of Harry’s hand and read it as well.  So much for his defense of Adelaide’s privacy.

Adelaide did her best to avoid a pinched look of distaste, but doubted she was entirely successful.  “Eugenie is my cousin,” she said briefly.  “And Rupert is her husband.”

“And I take it you’re not too crazy about this cousin?”

“It’s a long story.”

The truth was that Adelaide hadn’t thought much at all about Eugenie in the last couple of years.  The two of them had been close as girls; playing together, sharing ribbons and dolls, telling each other every secret that their 10-year old hearts prompted them to write in their diaries.  Even then, Adelaide had possessed a curiosity that Eugenie lacked; she’d been the child who refused to accept the words of her elders without verifying things for herself, and often could be found in pursuit of unfeminine activities such as climbing trees or running in meadows.  Eugenie had been more conventional, more ladylike.  Still, they had gotten along famously and Adelaide had looked forward to every family occasion that brought them together.

Things began to change as they passed through adolescence into young adulthood.  Both girls were considered beauties.  Adelaide was tall, with dark eyes and thick, dark hair that often escaped the hairpins to tumble carelessly down her back.  Eugenie was fair, with wide grey eyes that managed to look innocent and knowing at the same time.  Young men were attracted to both girls, but many found Adelaide’s intelligence and independence to be challenging.   It wasn’t until she’d met Benjamin that Adelaide truly believed she could be happy being married.

Eugenie, on the other hand, was the picture of Victorian womanhood; sufficiently educated to manage household affairs but unencumbered by business or political opinions.   She counseled Adelaide regularly to soften her views lest she frighten eligible men away, but Adelaide had refused to be anything but herself.  Eventually, Eugenie had become engaged to Rupert Boyleston, the son of a wealthy importer.  Adelaide considered Rupert to be one of the worst choices possible -- not particularly intelligent, self-important, and intolerant of any ideas other than his own.   She’d been smart enough to soften _that_ view, however, at least when she was around Eugenie.   Still, it had been hard to disguise her dislike altogether and Eugenie’s marriage had been the final nail in the coffin that drove both young women to very different paths in life.  Their social contact had been limited since then.

All of which was too complicated to explain to Harry and Arthur.  So instead, she said tartly, “Eugenie and I can get along when we need to.  Rupert, on the other hand, is a pompous ass.”

Harry snorted out a laugh and even Arthur grinned.  “Can I assume from that statement that Rupert disapproves of women working, and of your occupation as a constable in particular?” Arthur asked.

She shrugged.  “Rupert doesn’t appreciate any woman using her brains for something other than selecting the dinner menu and deciding what to wear.  And, no matter where he is, he always considers himself the most important man in the room.  He’s got dozens of stories about himself; the brilliant business decisions he’s made, his relationships with various prominent families -- and he’s happy to go on and on about them.”

“Well,” Arthur said soothingly, “maybe there will be a good supernatural crime that will require our services to solve.  Then you won’t have much time for Rupert.”

Adelaide sighed, “One can only hope.”

* * *

 

Sadly, the poltergeists, supernatural beings and even the earthly criminals paid no attention to Adelaide’s hopes.   Everyone in London  -- _everything_ in London – seemed to be on his or its best behavior that week.  Adelaide came to work each morning optimistically anticipating a respectable murder or missing person only to find that nothing of note had happened and, other than the odd lost cat or stolen wallet, she had plenty of time available to spend with Rupert and Eugenie.

Eugenie looked much the same as Adelaide remembered her.  Her wavy, light brown hair was carefully coiffed in the latest style and her large grey eyes were as lovely as ever, even if they seemed to have lost most of their innocence.  There was a sharpness about Eugenie that never used to be there; some of Rupert’s superior attitude seemed to have rubbed off and she made disdainful remarks liberally – about other women’s clothing, about current events in London, and even about the classic art works in the National Gallery, one of Adelaide’s favorite places to spend leisure time.  Adelaide was at a loss to think of any sights in the city that might elicit a favorable response.

And Rupert?  Well, he was _exactly_ as Adelaide remembered him.  He filled every outing with stories of his business acumen and always managed to include an association with someone of renown – The Earl of Something-or-Other or the Duke of Somewhere.   Adelaide might have been able to largely ignore him except that Rupert couldn’t help but comment repeatedly on Benjamin’s failings.  He knew only what the public and, frankly, most of her family knew; that Benjamin had been found hanging in their house two years ago, presumably dead by his own hand.   Rupert believed that a man who committed suicide lacked the moral fiber that should be the hallmark of every English gentleman, and felt obliged to say so frequently.  Adelaide didn’t bother to correct him about the suicide.  Somehow, she didn’t think that being a member of an anarchist organization and shot while attempting to assassinate the U.S. president would be an improvement. 

So she did her best to nod disinterestedly and focus on something else when her cousin-in-law spoke.   It was becoming increasingly difficult as the days passed, and by mid-week she began making it a point to leave her pistol locked in a drawer at home.  After all, if she’d been able to shoot her beloved Benjamin, Lord only knew what she might do to Rupert if the weapon were within easy distance and he mentioned English fortitude one more time.

Arthur stopped by the police offices several times to see how she was holding up, but she only saw Harry once the entire week -- when he came around on Friday morning to say that he would not be able to meet her for their usual supper.  He seemed subdued, which was so unlike him that she felt compelled to put her own issues aside and ask if he was not feeling well.

He responded with a tired smile.  “I’m fine, Adelaide.  I’ve introduced a couple of new illusions that will debut in the show tomorrow and rehearsals aren’t going all that well.  My assistant can’t seem to get the timing right so we’ve been scheduling extra practices.”

“Oh, I see.”  She studied his face.  She was fairly certain there was more on his mind, but he said nothing so she finally added, “I hope things go well on Saturday.”

“Yeah, you and me both.  I trust you’ll be available for our supper date next week and that all the fine dining with your cousins hasn’t put you off the pub?”  His tone was teasing, more like the usual Harry she knew.

Adelaide smiled, “Not in the least.  I’ve got a hankering for a good steak pie.”

“Good.  And good luck with your cousins.  How much longer are they here?”

She sighed, “Another four days.”

He appeared to be searching for something positive to say.  “I could pick a few pockets on my way out of the station,” he offered.  “Give you an excuse to work late.”

She shook her head ruefully.  “Thanks, but I think I’m just going to have to grin and bear it.”

“Okay then.”  Harry once again gave her the weak imitation of his usual smile. “I’ll talk to you later.”

And he was gone.

Arthur stopped by not 15 minutes later.  “How are things going with your cousins?” he asked.

She shrugged.  “About as expected.  They’re finally getting used to calling me Adelaide instead of Penelope.  Have you talked to Harry at all this week?”

He shook his head.  “No, why?”

Adelaide frowned.  “I don’t know, he just doesn’t seem himself.  He was here a few minutes ago and he seemed…tired.”

“Harry?  _Tired_?”

“Exactly.  Not himself.  Maybe you could stop by his hotel and make sure he isn’t ill?  He says he’s not, but you know Harry…”

Arthur looked at his watch. “Well, I’m meeting with my publisher this afternoon and I promised the children an outing in the park tomorrow.  Perhaps tomorrow evening or Sunday after church?”

Adelaide had been hoping for something sooner.  “You don’t have time tonight?” she asked.

Arthur shook his head.  “An afternoon meeting with my publisher usually turns into dinner and cigars til late in the evening.”  He looked gently into her eyes.  “Adelaide, Harry is probably fine.  If there’s one thing that man pays attention to, it’s his physical condition.  He has an excellent physician.  If he were truly ill, I’m sure he’d consult him.”

Adelaide nodded.  Maybe Arthur was right.  She tried to put Harry out of her mind and focus instead on how she was going to survive an entire weekend with Eugenie and Rupert.

* * *

 

Fortunately, the weather was on her side.   Adelaide, Eugenie and Rupert spent a couple of hours at the British Museum on Saturday morning and then, at Rupert’s insistence, made their way to St. James Park for an early afternoon stroll.  Adelaide had always liked Hyde Park better, but being anywhere outside was preferable to the force of Rupert’s personality in an enclosed space.  The sunshine and soft breeze were soothing, and Adelaide smiled when she thought of Arthur enjoying that same breeze with his children.  Perhaps Kingsley was flying a kite, she thought.

“I have a surprise for us,” Rupert announced, interrupting Adelaide’s thoughts.  Both Adelaide and Eugenie looked at him expectantly.  “I was able to buy tickets to Harry Houdini’s show tonight.   I’m assured the seats are quite good.”  He paused, and then looked at Adelaide worriedly, “You haven’t seen it already, have you?”  When she shook her head, he added with a satisfied smile, “No, of course not.  The tickets were hard to come by.   Probably not something _you_ would be able to get.” 

The truth, of course, was that Adelaide could have gotten tickets very easily simply by asking Harry.  For various reasons, however, she’d never been interested in seeing him perform.  She felt that the Harry up on stage would be a caricature, not the real man, not _her_ Harry.  She preferred seeing him the way he was when he was investigating – intelligent, anxious to find the facts, skeptical of supernatural theories.  There was still an element of bravado about him, but when the three of them were on a case that bravado was reserved for exposing charlatans, not earning applause.   She liked _that_ Harry better.

She wasn’t about to explain any of this to Rupert and Eugenie, though.  In fact, she had revealed nothing to them at all about her friendship with Harry and Arthur.  She considered the two men part of her new life as Constable Stratton, and she wasn’t sure how or even if she wanted to introduce them to people from her old life as Penny Graves.  Changing her name and joining Scotland Yard had allowed her to do more than find the truth about Benjamin.  It had shown her a world where she could earn her living with her intelligence, where she was respected and considered an equal -- at least by Arthur and Harry.   She didn’t want to give her cousins the chance to taint that with their questions or their criticisms.  And besides, she hadn’t been able to clarify her thoughts about Harry to herself, let alone explain them to someone else.  If he were to speak to her in that overly familiar manner he often used, she would have _a lot_ of explaining to do.

So she forced a small smile on her face and said, “Seeing Houdini perform sounds… entertaining.  But perhaps the two of you would like an evening out on your own?  A dinner and a show could be romantic.”

Rupert frowned.  “Romantic?  Really, Adelaide, you have strange notions sometimes.  I made sure to get _three_ tickets.  We’re all going.”

And Eugenie added, “I’d really love it if you’d come as well, Adelaide.”  She sounded hopeful.

Adelaide sighed.  It sounded like she wasn’t going to be able to decline gracefully.  And besides, it was unlikely that Harry would even know she was there – she would be yet another face among a hundreds in the audience.   “Of course,” she said a little flatly, “I’m not sure what I was thinking.  I’d be happy to go.  Thank you for thinking of me when you got the tickets.” 

Rupert smiled a satisfied smile.  “Wonderful.  Eugenie and I will go back to our hotel to rest, and we will pick you up at your flat around 6:30.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

 

Harry may not have been pleased with his rehearsals, but as far as Adelaide could tell the show went off without a hitch.  The new illusions, which included a levitation as well as making a full-grown elephant disappear, were met with gasps and wild applause.  She was impressed despite her reservations about seeing him perform, although she didn’t think she would share that with Harry.   The evening ended with the Chinese Water Torture and Houdini taking his bows, coming back a second time when the audience refused to stop clapping.   People were still shaking their heads in disbelief as the house lights came up and they slowly made their way to the theater exits.

“For the life of me, I cannot imagine how he does those things.”  Eugenie sounded as enthusiastic as she had when they were girls. “None of them seem possible.”  It was lovely, Adelaide thought, to hear genuine interest in her voice instead of her usual, sophisticated detachment.  She wished she had seen more of _this_ Eugenie during the week.

“Perhaps we can ask him,” Rupert offered.  “I’ve heard that he sometimes meets with visitors backstage after the show.  We could introduce ourselves.”

Adelaide frowned.  She didn’t want to see Harry now, right after his performance.  She hadn’t told him she was coming to the theater for starters, and – worse -- it would mean exposing their relationship to Rupert and Eugenie, something she’d been trying to avoid.   She couldn’t exactly say that to Rupert, however.  So she said instead, “I don’t know, Rupert.  The man just spent the last five minutes upside down in a tank of water.  He may want to get into dry clothing and catch his breath.  I doubt he’ll really wish to speak with his audience.”

“Nonsense,” Rupert replied crisply.  “He’s an entertainer.  It’s his job to make people happy and, from what I’ve heard, he likes to hear from his fans.”  He stood a little straighter and adjusted his tie.  “And it’s not as if we’re riff-raff.  He may even have heard of me – or at least of Boyleston Imports.”

Adelaide resisted the temptation to tell Rupert that Harry had indeed heard of him – described by her only a few days ago as a pompous ass.  When Rupert was full of self-importance like this it was difficult to get him to change his mind; any disagreement was seen as a challenge to be overcome.  She sighed.  She may as well give in now, she thought, because this was otherwise going to turn into a debate and then a lecture in the middle of the theater. 

“Fine,” she acquiesced. “Let’s see if we can meet Mr. Houdini.” _And I’d better get ready to do some_ _explaining_.

Rupert nodded in satisfaction, “This way.”

Instead of following the crowds out into the streets, they turned and made their way back through the aisle, into the wings of the stage and then finally behind it.  Despite what Rupert had heard, they were the only audience members bold enough to do so; no one else had thought to meet the Great Houdini in person and Harry himself was nowhere in sight.  The place was certainly a beehive of activity, though; stage hands were busy moving and covering props and Adelaide caught a glimpse of Harry’s female assistant scurrying by with a pitcher of milk, presumably headed to Harry’s dressing room.  There was no sign of the elephant.   Perhaps Harry really _had_ made it vanish.

“Can I help you?”

Adelaide, Rupert and Eugenie turned to see a tall, rather heavy-set man addressing them.  His tone was polite, but Adelaide thought that might change if he were tested.  His facial expression said he’d had plenty of experience deterring aggressive Houdini followers and he looked formidable; over six feet with an abundance of muscle.

Even Rupert must have sensed that caution was called for, because he sounded unusually respectful when he said, “I’ve heard that Mr. Houdini will sometimes meet with people after the show.  We were so impressed, we were hoping for a chance to tell him so in person.”

The tall man shook his head.  “Unfortunately, sir, Mr. Houdini isn’t available this evening.  He thanks you for your interest, though, and is happy you enjoyed the performance.”

Rupert frowned.  “Are you certain?  You didn’t even ask him.”

“Quite certain, sir.  Mr. Houdini made it clear earlier that he wished not to be disturbed after the show.” There was no room for argument in the man’s tone.

Adelaide bit her lip thoughtfully.  _That_ didn’t sound like Harry.  She knew from experience that he enjoyed accolades from his fans.  That he didn’t want to hear them tonight, coupled with his lackluster demeanor yesterday, was worrisome.   Still, at this very moment it relieved her of having to explain Harry to Eugenie and Rupert, and she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.   Adelaide said cheerfully to Rupert, “Well, that’s that.  He’s not available.  Perhaps we might stop for a drink on our way home?”

But Rupert wasn’t ready to admit defeat.  “You might tell Mr. Houdini that Rupert Boyleston, of Boyleston Imports is asking,” he said to the tall man.   “He may be interested in doing business with us.  I hear he’s a man of expensive tastes.”

The tall man didn’t move.  “If you leave a card, I’ll be certain to give it to him.  I’m sure Mr. Houdini will contact you if he’s interested.”

Rupert’s forehead creased.  He wasn’t used to working this hard for an introduction.  “I wouldn’t think it was too difficult for you to mention that I’m here now,” he said testily.  “But since that seems beyond your capabilities, I can do so myself.  Which way is his dressing room?”

The tall man stood even taller and Adelaide noticed one of his hands form a loose fist.  Rupert, of course, noticed nothing; he was too fixated on the fact that someone had said “no” to him.  She glanced anxiously at Eugenie, but the woman was not going to argue with her husband.  It was up to Adelaide to rescue her cousin-in-law.  “Rupert…” she began in warning.   

She got no further.  “Really, Adelaide,” he interrupted, “I’m not being unreasonable.  I simply want Mr. Houdini to know that we’d like to meet him.  It’s important to stand up for yourself in these situations or people will forever take advantage of you.  Benjamin may not have had the spine for it, but _I_ certainly do.”

Adelaide felt a spark of anger at yet another reference to Benjamin, and bit back her retort.  It wouldn’t be such a bad idea, she thought, to allow Rupert to take his chances with the tall man and his large fists.  She shrugged and started to step away when the tall man himself said, “Adelaide?  Adelaide Stratton?”

She nodded, surprised.  “Yes?”

He stared at her curiously.  And for the first time, he looked a little less sure of himself.

“Would _you_ mind waiting here, ma’am?” he asked.  “Mr. Houdini said if you were ever to stop by I was to fetch him immediately.”  And, without waiting for her agreement, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away.

The three of them watched him zig-zag among the props and then disappear.

Eugenie and Rupert both turned to stare at her.  “ _You_ know Harry Houdini?” Rupert finally asked.

She nodded again, reluctantly.

Eugenie frowned.  “Why ever didn’t you say so when we were talking about him today?  We spent a fair amount of time on the subject.”

Adelaide closed her eyes briefly.   _I almost made it_ , she thought. _If only Rupert hadn’t said my name in front of the tall man_.  Now it looked like she was going to have to explain after all, although she decided that didn’t mean she needed to go into detail.  “We’ve been acquainted for almost a year,” she said shortly.  “I met Mr. Houdini when I was working an unusual case for Scotland Yard and we’ve remained… in touch since then.”  She almost smiled.     _Acquainted_ was such a proper, bland word.  She imagined her cousins’ reactions if she were to add, _and he kissed me a few months ago when we were alone in his room_.  It might almost be worth it, just to see Rupert’s face. 

Fortunately, she was saved from temptation.  Before she could say anything further, Harry’s voice called out, “Adelaide?  Is everything all right?”  A few seconds later he was at her side, his hair still damp from the Water Torture and wearing what Adelaide was certain was only a dressing gown, belted loosely at the waist.  She noticed his feet were bare.   His presence felt familiar and oddly comforting.

She gave him a wry smile.  “Everything’s fine, Harry.  I’m sorry to disturb.  My cousin Eugenie and her husband, Rupert, saw you perform and were hoping to meet you.  Your man,” she nodded to the tall fellow hovering protectively a few feet away, “told us you were unavailable tonight, however, so we were just on our way out.  I apologize for the interruption.”

“Rubbish!” Harry said, although to Adelaide it sounded a little forced.  “There’s no interruption.  I’d be happy to meet your cousins.”  Thankfully, he refrained from adding, _after what you’ve told me about them_.  His eyes met hers and he gave her a bemused look.  She guessed he was wondering exactly what she had told Rupert and Eugenie about the two of them.  The answer, of course, was almost nothing.  She wished she had a way to convey that to him now.

Without waiting for Adelaide to make the introductions, Rupert extended his hand.  “Mr. Houdini,” he said loudly, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’m Rupert Boyleston, and this is my wife Eugenie.  I’m the owner of Boyleston Imports – perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Boyleston,” Harry responded, shaking their hands in turn, “call me Harry.  And the pleasure is mine.   I’m delighted to meet any friends of Adelaide.  Please forgive my appearance.”  He gestured to his dressing gown. “You caught me resting.”  

Eugenie made a noise that sounded almost like a giggle and held onto Harry’s hand.  Adelaide could have sworn that her cousin’s eyes lingered on Harry’s trim waist for a few extra seconds before returning to his face.  “Penny…I mean, Adelaide has been very sly.  She’s told us nothing about you.  How on earth did you two meet?”

Harry looked at Adelaide as if to say, _how do you want me to answer this one?_ She gave him a tiny, desperate shrug.  If they’d had the chance to talk first, she would have tried to explain her wish to keep her new and old lives separate.  She would have told him that her cousins could never appreciate that a male magician and a female constable could be friends, and how that friendship was something worth protecting.   Unfortunately, there was no opportunity now.

But Harry, to her great surprise, must have understood a little, because he said carefully to Rupert and Eugenie, “You mean, the Constable never told you that she saved my life?”

Eugenie’s eyes widened.  “No,” she replied quickly.  “She said nothing about that.”

Harry smiled.  “She’s so modest,” he said warmly.  “But then I suppose she just considers it part of her job.  I was kidnapped,” he explained, “and held hostage – buried under ground.   Adelaide found me right before I was about to suffocate.   I am very much in her debt.”

Adelaide exhaled in relief.  She had forgotten about the incident in the cemetery and it was a good story for Eugenie and Rupert.  It offered a reason for Adelaide and Harry to have met and explained why he had stayed in contact with her since then – out of gratitude.  _Nice going, Harry_ , she thought.   She gave him a small smile of approval.

And, thankfully, Rupert didn’t probe for details.  He looked at Harry curiously. “Well, that’s quite a story,” he said after a pause. “We never understood Adelaide’s wish to work as a constable, other than she needed to do something after her husband’s death.  Police work is so unfeminine -- we thought it was a phase that she would grow out of.  Either that, or Scotland Yard would dismiss her.  But,” he added, almost bewildered, “it’s been a couple of years and she’s still at it.  I’m happy she was able to help you, but I’m sure you can understand how it might distress her family.”

Harry studied Rupert for a moment and Adelaide saw his expression harden a little. She suspected that if Rupert were not her relative, Harry might be tempted to launch into a debate.  Instead, he replied almost mildly, “Well I, for one, am grateful that Adelaide chose police work.  As I said, she saved my life.  And I’m not at all surprised Scotland Yard has kept her on.   They’re lucky to have her – she’s very good at her job.”

It was Rupert’s turn to study Harry as he digested that thought.  The notion that a woman could be effective at a man’s occupation – worse, that another _man_ might acknowledge it -- ultimately proved too much for him.  He laughed.   “I suppose you can look at it that way,” he said, “but I’m sure luck played a role.   Even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day.  And, had force been required to rescue you, I’m _certain_ you would have preferred a more traditional officer of the law.”

Harry turned to Adelaide with a look that said, _you weren’t kidding about this guy being_ _an ass_!  To Rupert he replied coolly, “I think, in my situation, that luck had very little to do with it.  And I’ve since learned that Adelaide has been instrumental in solving a number of other crimes.   I’m frankly surprised the police haven’t employed more women given her success – they’re as logical as men and intuitive as well.”

Rupert stared once again at Harry and then glanced not-too-subtly toward the exit.  Evidently he was finding the Great Houdini and his opinions on women to be a Great Disappointment.  He said tersely, “Well, sir, it’s been interesting meeting you.   You have some unusual ideas but, then again, you are American.  At any rate, I’m afraid we must be on our way.  I promised the ladies a sherry before we retire for the evening.”  He extended his hand, reluctantly, to Harry once more. 

Harry shook it.  “As I said, I’m delighted to meet any friends of Adelaide.  Thank you for stopping by.”  To Adelaide he added, “Nice to see you, Constable.  Don’t be a stranger.”  He lifted his eyebrows briefly as if to ask _how’d I do?_ – and then turned and began walking back toward his dressing room.   There was a slight slump to his shoulders and Adelaide felt the same pinprick of worry she’d had the day before.

“Well, ladies,” Rupert asked.  “Shall we go?”

* * *

 

Rupert dismissed all of Adelaide’s recommendations for drink locations as too “working class,” so they ended up returning to her cousins’ hotel for their nightcap.   The three of them settled into chairs in the small salon off the lobby, and Rupert ordered sherries for the women and a brandy for himself.  Adelaide had never really cared for sherry, but Rupert insisted that respectable women did not drink whiskey and ale seemed out of the question.  Still, they managed to chat amiably enough about current goings-on with the family and Adelaide found herself relaxing and growing slightly drowsy.   After about twenty minutes, Rupert spotted a business associate and excused himself to talk with the man.   Eugenie watched him as he left the room.

“So,” she said to Adelaide once Rupert was out of earshot, “are you going to tell me the real story about you and Harry Houdini now?”

“What?”  Suddenly Adelaide felt more awake.

Eugenie smiled.  “I said, I’d like to hear the real story about you and Houdini.”

Adelaide frowned.  She’d assumed Harry’s explanation back at the theater had been sufficient.  Rupert had certainly been happy enough not to mention his name again.  Evidently, Eugenie was more perceptive.  “You heard the real story from Harry,” she replied neutrally.  “I was able to locate him when he was being held hostage and saved his life.  He’s been very appreciative ever since.  I’m not sure there’s much more I can add.”

Eugenie rolled her eyes.   “Seriously, Adelaide?   That’s all you’re going to say?  Rupert may have been oblivious, but _I_ saw the way the two of you kept looking at each other.  In ten minutes you and Mr. Houdini had more of a conversation with your eyes than Rupert and I have with spoken words most days.”  She chuckled. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.  You clearly are more than just acquaintances – you know each other well.”

Adelaide sighed.  At least Eugenie had waited until Rupert had stepped away.  She couldn’t imagine having this conversation with him still there.  “Fine,” she agreed shortly. “You’re correct in thinking that I know Harry fairly well, but not for the reasons you’re thinking.  I see him frequently because we _work_ together.  Scotland Yard engaged him to help with unusual crimes and we’re in each other’s company when we’re working cases.  There isn’t much more to it than that.   And while we’re discussing it, you may as well know that I work with Arthur Conan Doyle, too.”

“Arthur Conan Doyle?  The writer?”

“Yes.”

Eugenie grinned.  “You certainly _have_ been busy, Cousin.  No wonder you never have time for the family any more.  And does Mr. Doyle look at you with the same interest that Mr. Houdini does?”

“It’s _Doctor_ Doyle, actually.  And, no, I don’t think he looks at me with any interest at all, given that he’s married.”  After a pause, she added stubbornly, “Not to say that Harry looks at me with interest, either.”

Eugenie’s grin faded and she gave Adelaide a kind, but exasperated look.  It reminded Adelaide a little of the expression her cousin used to wear when they were trying on clothes years ago and Adelaide would select a particularly unbecoming outfit.  It was an expression that said, _as smart as you are Adelaide, right now I know better_.  Out loud, her cousin said gently, “Adelaide, I don’t want to push if you insist that the two of you are simply colleagues.  I just think you ought to know that Harry Houdini appears to have feelings for you.  He looked at you tonight as if…oh, I don’t know…as if you were his lifeline.   As if he thought you could _still_ save him.”

Adelaide opened her mouth to disagree once more but then hesitated.  Why bother?  After all, what Eugenie said was true and she should stop denying it, at least to herself.  Harry had looked at her with that same need, months ago in Canada.  He had leaned on her, albeit briefly, when he was dealing with the loss of his mother.  Not Doyle, not his brother – her.   She suddenly thought of something.

“What day is it?” she asked quickly.

Eugenie frowned, “The 27th.  Why?”

Adelaide sighed and rested her forehead briefly in her hand.  “I can be so stupid sometimes.  Would you mind excusing me?   There’s someone I need to talk to.”

“Now?  Adelaide, it’s after 10:00.”

“I know that.  He won’t mind.”

Eugenie gave her a long look.  “Well, if you’re going to see Mr. Houdini, at least let one of us go with you.  It isn’t safe to be out on the streets alone.”

Adelaide smiled.  “Thank you, but I do it all the time.  I’m a police officer, remember?  And besides, Harry’s suite is only about five minutes from here.”

Eugenie sighed.  “Very well.  Give Harry my best.  And I’ll expect a full report tomorrow.  I’m sure we can send Rupert off somewhere to give ourselves some time alone.”

Adelaide nodded.  “It’s a deal.  And, Eugenie?”

“Yes?”

Adelaide gave her cousin a brief kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

The sound of the gramophone playing softly behind the door to Harry’s suite told Adelaide that the magician was still awake.  His choice of music was unexpected.  Adelaide would have assumed him to enjoy a boisterous symphony but instead she could just make out a plaintiff piano etude.  She felt a small tug at her heart. 

Despite her misgivings about dropping by at such a late hour, she knocked softly.  After what seemed an inordinate amount of time, the door opened.  Harry stood there, appearing much the same as he had that evening in Canada; a little bewildered, with a drink in his hand.  Unlike Canada, however, he was dressed very casually in a soft jersey with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and well-worn corduroy trousers.  In those clothes he looked young -- not his usual, dapper self.   He clearly hadn’t been anticipating company. 

“Adelaide?”

She took a deep breath.  “Harry, I’m sorry to come by so late but I wanted to apologize.  I was so busy thinking about myself this week that I forgot what this date means to you.  I should have been more considerate.”

He shook his head, perplexed.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He stepped away from the door and then closed it gently behind them once she had entered the room.  He gestured toward the sideboard.  “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, as long as it’s not sherry.”

“Whiskey?”

She nodded, “Whiskey would be perfect.”

He padded over to the sideboard in stockinged feet and poured her a generous glass.  “Now what’s this about the date?” he asked, handing her the drink.

She took a sip, feeling the whiskey burn its way down to her stomach.  “Six months today.  It’s been six months since your mother died.  You didn’t seem yourself yesterday or tonight and I didn’t figure out why until I was having a nightcap with my cousins.  I should have said something sooner.  I’m so sorry.”

Harry stared at her guardedly.  “Adelaide…” he began.

She didn’t let him finish.  She had a pretty good idea of what he was going to say.  “Harry, it’s all right to still be missing her -- it’s all right to still be grieving.  Six months is nothing.”

“Adelaide…”

“I grieved for my husband for nearly two years.  Your mother was the most important person in your life and I know you loved her dearly.  What you’re feeling is perfectly normal.”

“Adelaide!”  Harry’s voice was sharp, causing her spill a little of her drink.  “That’s not it.  I _know_ it’s all right to grieve for her.  That’s not what’s bothering me.”

“Then what is it?”

He walked over to the sofa and sat down tiredly, running one hand through his thick hair.  “What’s bothering me is that she’s not giving me the _chance_ to grieve.  She’s not leaving me alone.”  His voice sank to a whisper.  “I still see her.”

Adelaide nearly dropped her glass.   She wouldn’t have been surprised if Arthur had said something like that, but Harry?  She walked over to the sofa and sat next to him.  “You mean you see her in dreams?  Or you see people who remind you of her?”

Harry shook his head.  “No, I mean I still see her, as real as I’m seeing you right now.”

Adelaide pursed her lips. “Does she say anything?”

He sighed heavily.  “No, mostly she just looks at me and smiles.”  He took a large swallow of whiskey and buried his face in his hand.  “Remember when we first met and I asked you what you feared most?  Well, this is it for me.  What I fear most is losing my sanity.”  The terror in his voice was naked and raw.  The small tug on Adelaide’s heart became a full-fledged ache.

She put her glass down and took his hand in both of hers.  “Harry, have you thought at all about logical explanations?” she asked, forcing herself to sound calm. “After all, I saw my husband hanging in his study and was certain that he was dead.  That turned out to be untrue.”

Harry shrugged desperately. “What logical explanation could there be?  I don’t think my mother faked _her_ death.  I visited her body every day on the ship for a week and I saw her buried.”

“Does anyone else see her?”

He paused.   She could see his natural bent for investigation trying to push its way past the fear as he considered the question.  “I don’t know,” he said slowly.  “I don’t think so.  She only seems to show up when I’m alone.”  After a moment he added, “She’s not here now.”

Adelaide squeezed his hand.  “Well that’s something,” she said.  “Did she have a sister, perhaps?  A twin that she never told you about?  Did she leave relatives behind in Budapest when your family moved to America?”

He looked at her with a small gleam of hope in his eyes.  “She never talked much about her relatives,” he said a little more positively.  “I suppose it’s possible.”  But then the gleam died.  “That still wouldn’t explain how she was able to show up here, in a locked hotel suite, or find me on the ship.”  After a moment he shook his head again, the hope gone.  “No, I must be going insane.”

“Harry!” Adelaide spoke sharply, unable to tolerate the despair in his voice.  He, of all people, should not sound like this.  “The fact that you’re worried about going insane, that you know it’s not…usual…to see your dead mother, tells me that you’re _not_ losing your mind.  You always challenge Arthur for a logical explanation when he’s prepared to use a supernatural one.  You need to challenge yourself the same way now.”  She reached out to stroke his cheek gently. “And you’re not alone.  Whatever is going on, we’ll figure it out together.”

He turned to her, his eyes searching hers with honesty and vulnerability.  “Thank you, Adelaide,” he whispered.  “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“It will be all right, Harry,” she said softly.  “We _will_ make sense of this.”  Before she could second-guess herself, she leaned forward to kiss him briefly on the mouth.

He stared at her for a long moment.  “Now I _know_ I’m going insane,” he said at last.  “I could have sworn _you_ just kissed _me_.”  She was pleased to hear a little of the buoyance return to his voice.

She smiled.  “I did.  And, unlike you, I’m not even going to apologize for it.”

He gave her a poor attempt at his usual, cocky grin, his eyes never leaving hers.  She could almost see the moment he made up his mind, so she wasn’t entirely surprised when he dropped his whiskey glass and bent forward to clasp her face between his hands and capture her mouth with his.

And, oh my goodness, the man knew how to kiss!  That night in Canada had been only a harbinger, a pale foreshadowing of the real thing.  This was…this was…well, this was _something_ , that Adelaide couldn’t quite find words for.  She was dimly aware that it was probably a bad idea; it was late, Harry was vulnerable, and Eugenie’s words about being his lifeline were still fresh in her mind.  But she also knew with certainty that this kiss was about more than Harry’s need at that moment.  It was about him seeing the real Adelaide and loving what he saw.  It was about a year’s worth of furtive glances and pent-up desires.  It was honest and equal, with no pretenses and no holding back.  It was, in short, everything that a kiss should be. 

She clasped his forearms and pulled herself a little closer.  One of Harry’s hands slid to the back of her head and entwined in her hair.

She didn’t know how long the knocking had been going on.  She only became aware of it when the sound grew loud and insistent.  Harry must have heard it too, because he hesitated but didn’t pull away.   Still clasping her face he said softly against her lips.  “Has that knocking been there for a while?”

“I don’t know.  I was a little…distracted.”

“Me too.” He sighed heavily and sat back reluctantly.  “I suppose I should answer it.  I think whoever is there isn’t going to go away.”  Without waiting for her response, he rose from the sofa and walked slowly to the door.

“Arthur,” he announced upon opening it.

“Harry,” Arthur responded.  “Sorry for dropping by so late but Adelaide mentioned yesterday that you might be ill.  She asked me to see you when I had the chance.”  He stepped into the room but then stopped when he saw Adelaide.  “Oh,” he said flatly.  “You’re here.” 

“Yes.” Adelaide, still seated on the sofa, nearly laughed.  She was certain her face was flushed and her hair was disheveled, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.  She probably should be relieved, she thought, at Arthur’s interruption.  After all, who knew where that kiss was going to lead?  She met Harry’s eyes and gave him a smile and an apologetic shrug.

He smiled back.  “Arthur,” he said, “Would you like a drink?”


End file.
